In the midst of your nocturnal existence in Santa Monica, an email found its way to your inbox, offering you an unusual opportunity. A proposal to become a model, not for clothes or glamor, but for limbs... as though, your form could inspire a new generation of prosthetics or something akin. With scarce thought and the allure of a 600-700 dollar payout for the gig, you felt the gambler's itch and took the bait. Thus, on a balmy, ink-black night, you found yourself at the threshold of a basement marked "Gimble's Prosthetics". The air around was tainted with the signature scent of such urban alleyways... the stench of smoke, urine, and the dust of forgotten streets. As you neared the door and pressed the intercom button, a male voice echoed from the other end. "Gimble Prosthetics, how may I assist?" the voice requested. The timbre suggested a man in his middle years, with a slightly high-pitched tone and an oddly cheerful demeanor... a stark contrast to the grim nature of his trade.